Fever
by auntkia
Summary: Jordan seems to have given Woody a slight fever. Kinda sorta WJ (Woody's POV)


Disclaimer: Once again, these characters are not mine - I'm just practicing my manipulation skills.

I tried to write this for Law & Order:SVU but it just wouldn't come out right so -

**Fever**

Ever have a three minute thirty-seven second fever? I have. And I'm sure there were other men with the same affliction a week ago tonight.

Let me back up.

There had been a string of attacks on women at several gentlemen's clubs in the past few weeks. The newspapers really picked up on the story after the last attack at a new club - _Georgia's_.

I'd read about the place in the papers when it opened to pretty swanky reviews. It was a throw back to the Thirties nightclubs - you know - the kind of place you could get dinner, dancing, and a performance thrown in - like that movie 'Victor/Victoria', I think it was. The one with the lady from 'The Sound of Music'. Heard the waiting list to get in was at least six months to a year. And that was if you knew somebody. Or somebody knew you.

And it was a switch from what kind of place was being attacked that, as lead detective on the case, prompted the fire under my ass, to catch whoever was doing this.

Georgia Montclair, the owner of _Georgia's_, had actually suggested the idea to send someone in as a performer - in front of my superior, who promptly ordered me to find someone to go undercover as bait. Since I was at a total loss as to what type of performer Georgia was suggesting, I was more than thrilled to let her tell me what to do. Less than thrilled to have to find someone with a minute ability to sing and dance. Evidently, there was a reason the women of the Boston Police Department went into law enforcement.

Not one of them could sing or dance.

Knowing she would take it upon herself to 'help out a bit', I tried not to discuss the case in too much detail with Jordan. I just forgot to try not to discuss the case with Georgia in too much detail when there was a chance that Jordan might happen to stumble upon those details.

Details being that after two weeks, I couldn't find a female in the Boston Police Department that could go in undercover at _Georgia's_ as a performer.

I had never seen anything like it. Women always know how to dance at least. Not singing, I could understand but no ability to dance?? Come on. Women can dance sitting in a chair, for the love of all. Except for the women in the Boston Police Department apparently.

Talking with Georgia at the morgue was just plain stupid. I didn't think Jordan was there when we dropped by to pick up some reports and was trying to explain to Georgia the dilemma of finding someone when we ran in to my favorite mortician. Jordan, dear that she is, managed to pry the whole story out of Georgia, who in her ignorance of the workings of Jordan Cavanaugh's mind, saw nothing wrong with letting the medical examiner in on the whole undercover issue and my trouble with finding someone to use as bait before I could stop her.

And Jordan promptly offered to be the bait. Georgia jumped on the offer pointing out over my objections that I had just told her there wasn't anyone else to be considered.

"How do you know she can dance?" I asked Georgia, desperately trying to change her mind, knowing very well that Jordan could dance. And sing. "Much less sing."

"As long as she can do one or the other, she'll be fine," Georgia insisted, adding."I can work with her like I do all my girls."

I looked at Jordan. I knew when I'd been beaten. I didn't like the idea but I also knew I was running out of options. I'd been ordered to find the attacker. The incident at _Georgia's_ had put this case at the top of the list. _Georgia's_ was no gentlemen's club but one of the hot spots of the city. One of the newest hot spots of the city that showed no signs of cooling off. Several noted politicians and city officials had been to _Georgia's_ as well as the average citizen. It wasn't as loud as a nightclub but more enjoyable - apparently - than the theater or an art gallery.

I gave in, giving Jordan strict orders to do as I told her. An order I knew she would ignore but it made me feel better saying it.

I'd feel better once this crazy scheme was done and we got the guy.

And I knew Jordan was safe.

According to plan, I arrived dressed to the nines in my tux, lookin' pretty damn good if I say so myself, and was shown to my table down front by Georgia herself. The woman had been incredibly cooperative during all of this, doing anything she could to aid us in catching the guy. "I'll not be known for letting more people get hurt just from a little inconvenience," she'd said.

Looking at the nostalgic art deco decor, it never ceases to surprise me what the next 'thing' will be that hits the city. It was an hour before it dawned on me I hadn't seen Jordan milling about during cocktails and dinner as a lot of other performers were but then again, the place was huge and full of people so it's no wonder I didn't spot her.

The musicians, in the Big Band layout, paused in the soft dinner music that had been playing, signaling a performance and my instincts sharpened, ready to go to work watching the doors to backstage and anyone lurking around that might match up to what we already knew. The lights dimmed and a spotlight temporarily blinded me while the emcee's voice came over the speaker introducing Ms. Serena Boyd. Nothing prepared me for what I saw.

There on the stage with her back to the audience, stood Jordan. From the back, the burgundy satin evening dress she wore covered her from the hips down to the floor, clinging in places and flaring in others, leaving her back completely bare. I never thought the sight of a naked back could put me in a state of sheer stupidity. And I briefly wondered exactly what she had on under that dress. If she had anything on under that dress. And how.

A hush fell over the room in anticipation of what was to come and I found myself waiting just as anxiously as the rest of the room but knowing the woman on the stage was full of surprises only heightened the anticipation for me.

I immediately recognized the rhythmic thum-thum-thum, thum-thum-thum as the beginning bars of the classic Peggy Lee song from the Sixties 'Fever'. What a choice for Jordan. If the fact that I thought someone turned up the temperature in the room was any indication, the piece was perfect for Jordan and was having the desired effect. I could be rendered no more stupid that I was at that moment.

I was wrong. And rendered the town idiot when she slowly - keeping time with the music - turned to face the audience and prowled (there is just no other word to describe the loose hipped walk I never knew Jordan was capable of) up to the old-fashioned style microphone at the middle of the stage.

The front of the dress was just as jaw-dropping as the back. A plunging halter-style neckline reminiscent of a Hollywood Golden Age starlet gown revealed much more of Jordan thanI had ever seen. Even the infamous red dress from the last time she'd talked me into using her as bait seemed modest compared to this.

She'd piled her dark curls up on top of her head, letting tendrils escape as they may, begging for a man to pull the pins and let them fall as they may. Her creamy porcelain skin contrasted with the burgundy of the gown and paired with her ruby red lips, lent an air of a pin-up girl to her. She was in a word: sex personified.

All reason flew as I watched this Jordan, who seemed to be looking directly at me, teasing me as she'd done before. She knew what she was doing and having way too much fun doing it. And I was enjoying it way too much.

Holding the microphone with the ease of a seasoned performer, she flirted with the darkened audience she could not see telling of them of the 'fever' she received in her phantom lover's presence, his touch, the sound of him saying her name, and how it's such a lovely way to 'burn' encouraging everyone to experience it once.

I remembered to breath as the room darkened and the performance came to an end to a round of uproarious applause. Thankfully. Jordan took her bow, staring at me with her come-hither grin. I hated that grin. And I was never able to resist it. She knew what she had done and so did I. We were back to that strange mating dance we did every once in a while. We were going to have to do something about that. Soon.

Needless to say,the Boston Pdgot our man. And he didn't even try to go after Jordan. Seems he was stalking one of the dancers who had at one time had a connection to one of the clubs where someone was attacked. Friend of hers worked there, that sort of thing. His way to get the dancer's attention.

I did talk to Jordan about her performance that night, she claimed innocence.

"I was just doing what Georgia instructed," she insisted. "Do you actually think I would be so blatant if it wasn't a performance? C'mon Woody, you know me!"

Yes, I do know you, Jordan. You set out to give everyone a fever and you did. Come to think of it, Georgia mentioned to me that Jordan was a natural. Most women spent years being able to do what she pulled off in a few weeks.

"She can come back and do that again anytime she wants," Georgia laughingly told me.

Over my dead body.


End file.
